Nuke-Nudes Forever Part The Second: A Colander Of Chromosomal Culling
by Quillon42
Summary: Kwannon (Asian Psylocke of body and of mind with no Betsy involved) and Scott are back to take on another adventure in the altogether. A reigning redhead and her sapphire seraph are along for the ordeal as well this time, as are two passionate isles given to crimefighting and lovemaking. (I apologize in advance for reuploadings and possibly spamming anybody's emails a small bit).
1. Chapter 1

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER PART THE SECOND: A COLANDER OF CHROMOSOMAL CULLING

By Quillon42

CHAPTER ONE

SOMETIME IN 1993 IN AN ETERNAL UPSTATE NEW YORK SUBURB

Never was an evening complete for the Clops without the filing of a Danger Report. Scotty Summers, at a desk in his own private quarters and he still clothed so completely in his cerulean costume, he lashed out with furious fervor at the leaf of paper in front of him, the man anxious to etch in every training transaction that transpired that evening. Cyclops endeavored to an extreme to ensure that every maneuver, every attack plan, every success and failure in that most challenging of chambers known as the Danger Room was taken down in the X-Annals for posterity.

It was the case indeed, in this forever fling of an alternate X-reality, that Scott played two roles with a vengeance: that of fearless leader…

…and that of comeback cuckold.

As fate would have it, Summers of late had suffered the cruelest of cardiac casualties when his perennial love—that monopolizer of amours known as Jean Grey—she had severed from Scott, uprooted the rapport between them that ran the mega-genetic gamut from psychic to sexual. It all manifested upon the mutant murder of one ends-of-the-Earth-inescapable asshole known as Wolverine, whom the woman realized too late that she loved more, in a series of only so many random-ass encounters, than that laser-eyed leader with whom she had shared hundreds of sorties.

There was no question that the wistful memory of the redoubtable redhead had reverberated through the man's mind now; hell, when one considered it, now was the first time in as long as the supergenetic boy scout could recall that he didn't have a red, red…red apple of his eye…considering the last thirty years trisected unevenly between Jean, off and on from the years of teen-squeeze to the time of TAS sellout; Madelyne from Anchorage, whose path was beset with pain from the hinterlands of Alaska to the Hell of Inferno; and that alien clone who called herself Phoenix…the one who spawned from space and likewise made her exit from existence out in that cold Blue Area yonder.

No; now that the man had been marooned (pun perhaps intended) so very cruelly by that churlish cherry orchard…

…Scott would go and switch his tastes to that most succulent of plums who had pursued him.

Padding through the hallway he could hear her now; it was only a matter of seconds until

[NOCK NOCK NOCK]

and the steadfast soldier known as Slim allowed himself up off his chair and away from his report to answer the student who sought his attention.

[SWEEEAAANNNGGG]

And as that old, creaky contrivance of a door allowed itself ajar with some protest, Summers felt something at waist level feel very, very leaden of a sudden.

"Here, Cyclops…

"I thought you might have liked to have your jacket back."

She stood there before him, her slender figure filling only about a third of the doorframe but the woman blocking out the rest of the world, in Scott's beryl-blotted perception. The Asian ex-assassin Kwannon yet had Cyke's leather coat covering her shoulders…but the bounty of her sweltering, Olympicesque-exercise-exhausted body bedecked in nothing but the scantest scarlet bikini besides.

Slim scanned her up and down, he cutting and pasting in his memory banks the patterns of poolwater and perspiration that pulsed along the lady's flesh.

The liberally-appareled assassin, in turn, skimmed over the garb Scott was sporting…she envisioning how gratifying it would be to gash her way with psychic knife through all of those threads.

Without another instant's hesitation, Cyke lunged out at the lady before him, his fingers feverishly fiending for her leathered forearm, and dragged her giggling into the room—Slim slamming shut that forsaken door a second later.

Within ten minutes the two were tumbling, thrashing out most tenderly in a sleeping bag suited for one, Slim's actual king-sized bed based against the wall only a couple meters away. The joke between Scott and Kwannon always was that each's tantalizing thirst for the other was so fervent that, once the psi-seductress crossed the Summers threshold within that madhouse of a Mansion, both became so overcome with amorousness that neither could wait the nine-step-walk it took to reach the man's mattress.

So there they were configured now, each intertwined within the other's lusting limbs between covers crafted for camping out or innocents sleeping over. A yard away from sweat-smothered panties hushed down gleaming golden thighs, as well as blue and gold standard Academy-issued duds slashed irretrievably to pieces by way of a sharp psy-shiv, Scott and Kwann had most savagely at one another.

Kwannon mouthed mawkishly at her man's majestic chest, she sating her hunger for him by nibbling on the coarse hairs rooted there. As they spun and swerved in that sleeper, Slim in turn slid his drearily-dry lips across the expanse of his lover's ample, aureate breasts as they throbbed full into his face. The lady's lithe hand, that most delicate psychic-blade-sheath, it snatched at the man's sturdy, stalky shaft, she tightening her supple palm around it. Scott's passion-parched tongue lathered slaveringly at the purple psionic's shapely, supple hindquarters. Kwann in turn grabbed greedily at her leader's pasty white buttocks.

"Ahhh," began Kwannon as each settled into a stasis of satiation, after having had at one another for the last several minutes: "You should have seen the look on good ol' Jeannie's face, when I passed her by in the hallway downstairs. Rather nonplussed, I would say, to see me in your leader's leather once again…and clad in so little else, of course."

Scott shot his latest lady a sly gaze from askance. "The only thing sexier than you in that jacket, Kwan…is you out of it.

"No…strike that. The best," the man said, holding the woman warrior hard and close, his rough, developed abs against her smooth stomach, the fragrant aroma of the essences she wore weaving wickedly into his nostrils, "…is my…caressing it, right off of your curvy little self…"

"And I, in turn, Scott…"

[FSSSHHHHHH]

from the pink phasing of the psychic knife flashing from her wrist.

"I just get…such a rush…"

[SSSSSHHHHHHHHHH]

as the mystical stiletto slid along the man's back, it still adorned by some tatters of the costume she sheared off some moments ago in their teakwood-floored tryst.

"From just grinding through all that gold and blue you always have on…psychically slashing through so many costumes you happen to own."

The two silenced each other a second later with another crushing kiss, Kwannon positioning herself atop Scott another few minutes from then, she now naked atop the man save for that jacket of his that he still, this night, did not yet receive back from her. As the young woman was well aware, this was all a sort of subconscious thing with Slim, as deep within his libido, the man had many kinky curiosities that got him off…and after Inferno, with his first wife walking around in her goblin effects of sapphire sleeves and flesh beyond, Cyke sort of had a thing for clothed arms while almost all else was exposed. Kwannon, as such, was fulfilling his fantasy through this, with he to satisfy certain fetishes of hers in turn and many other favors throughout the course of their affair so afire.

Kwannon hefted, tossed her violet locks above her head, she configuring her hair in a bun as she commenced to undulate smoothly atop Scott, the two coursing along quite fluidly with their intimate interlocking. The two mutants melded most mellifluously, the older leader staring up raptly at the proud, planetary-ponderous breasts bouncing out at the man as she leapt softly atop him, glorious aureate spheres boasted by this young recruit who had taken a quick likening to Scott during the course of Cameron Hodge's Genoshan Agenda. She in turn now looked down at the man, she narrowing her eyes with salacity at the sight of his broad, burnished pectorals, she throwing a warm palm down now atop them as she proceeded to push, push along, she keeping the other hand above her head as she continued to conquer him with a chase-paced cadence.

Tossing up and down was Kwannon atop a peak of passion, she locking lavender irises with Summers's scarlet spectacles as she went, the two sharing a grin from glutting the self from the other, of easing all the tension in the world from the other, the woman arriving along at a stroll, then at a canter for many minutes…then almost at a sprint…

…then when that most explosive instant erupted, she yelping out, crying the man's name louder than any beleaguered version of Jean in a circumstance of crisis…

…then Kwannon, overcome with elation, settling her sweaty, jacketed self down upon Scott to rest.

It at that point became Scott's turn to ease his lady's exodus into a comforting unconsciousness for the evening. Her eyelids began to draw down, she descending into a delirium of drowsiness as her man began to please every picometer of her blemish-blank figure. "Mmmmm…Slut…

"Slut…" Kwannon uttered, she calling him by her own pet permutation of Scott's time-honored nickname "Slim," she shuddering with satisfaction as Summers kissed his lady's soles, licked the length of the insides of his lady's mile-long thighs, glossed and grazed the snug nook of Kwannon's mound, all to send her into the pleasantest sleep possible.

It was while Scott was orally caressing the chrome cream of Kwannon's silken belly, he mushing his lips along that lovely, sweaty cavity of carnality, he tonguing the trench of Kwannon's erotically-elongated navel, with her guiding sleek fingers along the wavy locks of his scalp as he went…

…that a voice boomed out, it sounding stridently from above the two—an intonation that belonged neither to Providence nor the Professor.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER PART THE SECOND: THE COLANDER OF CHROMOSOMAL CULLING

By Quillon42

CHAPTER TWO

On a lush veldt along the most undeveloped crescent of Genosha—that wayward islet, that despot depot for so many politically-posturing tyrants—twin bullish blondies clothed in khaki walked along, hand in hand. The ground underfoot seemed to growl in frustration as one of the pair, a muff of a male, shook his champagne bottle feverishly.

"I don't think the climes here're going to allow for a much better morning for this, my dear," said the overgrown boy of a twin to his sister as he gripped her palm tightly. The comment was met with a scornful sidelong glance from said woman, she as generously-developed in a physical sense as her brother, yet so much more mature mentally.

The other said nothing as the twain continued to shift along the steppe, they nearly reaching the precipice vantage they so zealously sought. Finally, after a few more minutes of intimate silence between them, the lady, holding up the length of the sniper rifle she held in her own free hand and looking through its scope:

"Really it's like I told you, last night just as I tucked you in, Andreas…"

She broke off from him lightly as she raised the aforementioned sight to her steely blue eye.

"I wouldn't call a culling off on account of weather anyhow."

Through the scope Andrea, the "she" of the Von Strucker twins…she could note the straggling and scampering of two brazen youths, the two out there escaping from the ultimatum that the Neo-Nazis had handed down to them and others like them, the demand that all mutants on the now-Hydra-helmed Genosha surrender themselves to machinery designed to filter away and store their superhuman abilities, leaving them sterile…or suffer an excruciating torture-taken extraction of the same process. In other words, there was an offer of the "easy way" or the "hard way" by the Struckers to the superpeople of the isle, with both reaching the same result.

With an influx of technology lent from Advanced Idea Mechanics, or AIM, Hydra now held the key to milking out of mutants what made them so special, and above the more standard sapiens of the planet.

Of course, there were people who opted for a third choice, which involved an impromptu absconding away from the deals of draining them down. Fleeing along the Genoshan lowlands right now, as Andrea observed through her sniperscope, was Jennifer Ransome, a pretty young mutant who was always, and presently, shadowed by her love Phillip Moreau (who himself was kin to a genetic gatherer—although he was intensely opposed to such practices). It looked to the blond Adonis and the blonde Aphrodite above that Jenny and Phil were making for a speedboat tethered to island's end, they now a matter of meters away.

"Now, now," said Andreas, he setting his bottle down bluntly to join his palm into his sister's outstretched own, "we can't have our little vibrant victuals going off premises when they have so much promise."

And then, the sham of a man squeezing a hand shut, as

[RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR]

the meadow below bucked in turn, a wave of earth arising before the two escapees just before they reached the boat, said obstruction curling Moreau and Ransome up into the air and backward several yards…

…but still well within the line of Andrea's gunsight.

"I'd employ my own tremendous talents right now also," the lady said, unhanding Andreas and looking up again through her weapon as, an instant following

[BANNNNNNNNNNGGG]

one shot belted out, the vomited dart striking Phillip straight in the neck, the young man willowing to the ground a second later.

"…but you know we want both of them alive. Especially jumpy little Jenny here…"

[BANNNNNNNNNNGGG]

and then the girl groaned as she jolted in place, joining her beau a beat later on the Genoshan floor.

"…she fetches quite a fair 'Ransome' indeed, as it were."

Satisfied with her shooting prowess, Andrea lowered her rifle, giving her brother a lusty glance. She began to walk past him when of a sudden he wrapped a khakied forearm around the woman's waist, leaning in for a smooch so much more than that of familial fare.

Andrea responded with her free palm up to her brother's chest. "Later, dear brother," she said, a yellowish flash sparking from delicate fingers, a spontaneous discharge spitting out and tickling the top, unbuttoned part of the man's chest. He relented, let go readily.

From over her shoulder, Andrea once more: "Believe me, Andreas…I had every intention of pushing my nightly punishment upon you, later this evening. Good things come, and all that."

The lady extended beckoning forefingers back to her brother as the latter obediently followed.

On the other end of the planet, a certain seraph stood stock in the center of a garden of genetic genesis, waiting for the key moment to manifest.

"…

"…Alright then, my blue-magenta mofo…

"…Let me get the _kickbollocks_ into position…!"

With that, Warren watched as the one he adored in amber and amaranth—none other than his Lady Jean Grey, she attired in her longstanding red and yellow X-Factor duds for the fun of it—watched her jog a few steps out with a wool-swathed ball in both hands…

…then boot it out brazenly into the air.

An instant following, and

[FFFSSSSSAAASSSSSHHHHH]

the ailerons of the Archangel let fly those ravaging razors that could paralyze any person…

…here, the knives knocking the hairy sphere from the ether, as if the ball were the clayeyest of pigeons.

[FOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHH]

Both Jean and Warren grinned as the object whined all the way down in its deflation and defeat.

As Master Worthington hovered over to retrieve the thing: "I have to say…I didn't think I would get quite that much pleasure out of knocking the wind out of a scale model of one of Logan's family jewels…"

Across the grass, the Grey one detonated with glee.

"I'm the telepath between us…and yet it's like _you_ read _my_ mind."

Warren locked his azure eyes with her own of emerald, and in another beat rushed over at his woman at full speed.

Just as he reached her, the Angel gathered Miss Grey up into his arms, the two laughing ecstatically as they shared another deep, breath-bereaving kiss.

Honestly, at least in this reality, Jean never knew a love as clean and carefree as that with Warren. Scott in contrast was just an overkill of angst, and Logan an assload of anger. With Warren…

…well, yes, the man did brood, in the past around the beginnings of Apocalypse and his Alliance and such. But since he and Jean discovered one another, in a way now in the Nineties which they never had in the thirty years heretofore…

…it was something that scratched out Warren's worries and woe entirely, and which in turn gave Jean an epinephrine jolt of emotional ecstasy. They each found in the other a new sort of youth, as if each had peeled away layers of mutant-miring malaise from the other, and mined out the much more naïve, hapless teenage counterparts that Warren and Jean alike had been in the beginning.

And upon this eureka of euphoria, the two relived encounters that each had with the other, way back when—but this time, the outcomes made the two feel exultant and not awkward. For example, unlike those times in the Sixties in which Warren stole Jean away from the Mansion in a convertible-conjuring screen of automotive smoke…only to have the young lady shake her head politely at the prospect of a kiss…now the two toured Westchester in a similar, souped-up ride, yet on a drive that was so much more dynamic. In particular, they now would appear to any onlooker as two ordinary humans riding and talking casually on a Sunday, top-down drive—while drawing the curtain beyond such an illusion uttered by Jean's mind maneuvers, she and her man were handing one another quite readily and vigorously in the same vehicle, with the lady controlling the car mentally through a psionic sort of cruise control.

And oh, the designs the wily Worthington had of launching himself and Jean high up, up into the air, the two of them flinging away all fabrics to flutter down forlornly to the earth, the pair trysting so tightly and so uncovered among the clouds…

"You know I'd do that…for you, Warren…but for you and you alone, only."

Jean, of course, had just transcribed into her own mind what broadcasted through the winged one's brain. Solemnly her man nodded in turn as he curled an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm just…just not too wild about the whole way this…mission's all supposed to go off."

"I know, Jeannie. Some people are sensitive about the idea of going out in the altogether…it's all for a cover, really."

"Yeah, yeah, what Fury was telling us the other day. The holding pens for the culled in Genosha…I get it. Those incestuous Struckerfucks not only get off on gawking at one another—they like to peek at the pieces of ass they score all around the island, also…just before they harvest them for their genetically-blessed abilities. It makes me sick…and it makes me want to go around there in the nude astronomically less."

Warren looked up into the reaches of the troposphere with his eagle-eyed vision. He wanted to do everything he could to please this lady whom he loved so much, and who he knew loved him as much in turn. It was a bit of a chance he took, throwing out the idea of adorning a kickball with some of Beast's fur, then dyeing it black and calling it one of the Wolvy One's balls…

…but Worthington was well aware of how much the Jean of this reality grew to fall into intense resentment with Wolverine, as here she blamed some of her little latent failures on the animalistic passions she felt with the brazen Canadian. She didn't necessarily need Scott in this universe…but she wanted something, someone more stable, a man who could always be there for her and not wander, who could make her feel even more special than she already did as a superhuman.

And Warren went that distance, even more daringly, perhaps, than Scott ever did or could.

And speaking of Slut, er…Scott…

"You know, from hearing him go on and on the other day, it must have been a hell of a hoot to have Colonel Fury flare out, just over his and Kwannon's heads, on that screen installed in the ceiling in Scott's room. I don't think Cyke even knew about that, for the longest time."

Jean could do nothing but snicker warmly at this. The concept of the ceiling screen in Scott's chambers was originally her brainchild, but only as a jest, as she was at that time still a bit forlorn for the leader and marked his moves more meticulously. But Xavier seized onto the idea—especially after that sketchy schoolmarm learned of the lust-larkings of Scott and Kwannon—and admittedly a jot of the colloquial "jelly" (in other words, envy) at Scott's luck with the ladies made the Professor proceed so far as to allow others, even outsiders such as the SHIELD leader, to have access to the same mischievous monitor.

Hence the booming voice from above while Summers was sifting with his tongue across the velvety, very exposed epidermis of the dame he adored at present.

"Yeah…I'm sure Fury gave old Scotty a good what-for, when the soldier shelled out the mission to those miserable idiots."

Then Jean leaned back, allowing Warren to receive her with his strong sapphire arms. "We're going to an island that is very insecure, fraught with dangers…and I, myself, am the worst kind of jinx imaginable. So many men have died while in relationships with me, Warren; I've dubbed myself the Grey Bereaved Girlfriend, as a sort of mocking tribute to the Black Widow, because of it.

"Why do you remain with me, in light of all that?"

Not faltering for a single instant, Warren turned his lady around gently to face him.

Before drawing her in for another, impassioned oral embrace:

"Because a guy can't be threatened with the dalliance of demise…

"When he's already himself played the part of Death."

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER PART THE SECOND: THE COLANDER OF CHROMOSOMAL CULLING

By Quillon42

CHAPTER THREE

Circumstances came together rather fluidly once the courageous quartet of Jean, Warren, Kwannon, and Slu…er, Scott had touched ground on the volatile soil of Genosha. Their cover as curious tourists from Westchester worked quite well, and soon they were quartered at a visitor's resort only miles from the mutant holding pens. With some luck, helped along by the ladies' psionics, the Xers would stealth their way into the pens, free as many depowered prisoners as possible, imbue them again with the abilities of which they were bereaved, and be on their way before the end of the week.

But first, though, they decided that they would play up their guise as gallivanters from the literal Jersey side of the Earth. The sojourners resolved to relax a little before their prudent push into the pens, specifically taking a load off by lying around at the lake not far from the resort. As with Scott and Kwann's last foray together, in Madripoor, a very nude tune was being called here, so midday found a at least two out of three mutants taking it easy in the altogether, each admiring one another's bodies near a body of water that was itself very beautiful and serene.

At the edge of the lake closer to the resort estate proper, Warren decided to try and upgrade his skin's rainbow shade from blue to indigo through catching some noontide rays. All in on the whole super-starker concept, the only part of the man that was not utterly azure exposed was the long, wild, millet-hued mutant mullet…a hairdo of which many like this author could not understand the stylishness or the point at all, not unlike the fauxhawks of only so many years back (reader's time). Nearby was Jean, a bit bashful…she staring out at the platinum placidity of the water…she stealing glances at the sapphire nether hardware that Warren was packing, that magnificent ultramarine missile that issued from the depths between his thighs…

…she adjusting the shells and thongs that comprised the costume she assumed in place of blatant bareness. As a compromise, you see, that most Marvelous of Girls, or should one say definitely by now, of Women, she herself eschewed the nude, opting instead for a libido-beckoning getup which was forced upon her a few years ago her time (again, this is 1993) and many fathoms down in the deep.

It was in the Summer of a non-Taylor-Swiftean 1989, to be exact, that Jean had been jaunted under the waves and taken prisoner by an evil sea slug known as Attuma. In the transit of her being trawled into the ocean, the lady lost consciousness…and when she came to, she found herself arrayed in a brassiere and panties comprised basically of seashells, with a carpet-red cape across her splendid shoulders to complement. Of course, this senses-goading garb was designed to arouse everyone from Attuma to this author and everyone in between—this swimsuit, or really drownsuit as it were (as Jean became rather waterlogged in the course of this misadventure), basically became for Jeannieheads (such as, again, this author) the Marvel-Girl-counterpart to Princess Leia on the skiff in Jedi.

(Seriously; people still fanart the drownsuit to this day. To help a bit, look up the "X-Factor Annual 4" from 1989; this author was going to selfishly withhold disclosing that, but it's not like millions of cult readers and loyal fans from TAS-on haven't already read/seen the issue anyway. And you're welcome, by the way).

Anyway, Jean was in the course now of hitching up the largest shells on her getup, those ocean-floor accessories which housed two magnificent mountains which most mortals could only dream of facially scaling. She caressed the shells upon her chest not so much out of a nervous habit, but rather to attract the attention of the monolith of a man, across the lake who was sporting only scarlet shades and nothing else upon his built body. Jean had to admit to herself that as much as she wanted to focus only on Warren, she bedecked herself in the bivalve bikini ulteriorly to get Scott to notice as well.

Now the lust-follicled lady looked over the water, glanced at the Clops now and again, took note of Warren's features, at her feet, the man appearing peaceful in his suncatching supine repose. She took note also of bubbles whirling upward, meters from Scott's edge of the lake, and wondered as to their source; well, no matter.

It was gratifying indeed to Jean, to catch sight of Scotty's eyebrows raising a bit at Miss Grey's sumptuous cleavage shunting out a tiny bit from the sides of the sizeable twin seashells…to witness the widening of his mouth upon moping at the perfect phosphorescence of her gleaming creamy thighs…to see the man harden, signs of stiffness emanating from both of Summers's heads (cranial and carnal alike), upon realizing once more the rapturous rosiness of her warm belly breathing out between the ocean effects that comprised her costume…

[SSSPPPLLLAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH]

"_Scott!"_

And then the ravishing reverie that the redhead set into motion was abruptly aborted as a sleekly-surfacing Kwannon…the bitch who was behind the bubbles in the lake after all…had emerged from underwater, a watery way she had apparently been occupying this entire hour…

…earrings of rose upon her lobes, which Scott attempted to gift to Madame Grey in a futile attempt to get her back once upon a year or so ago…that jewelry, as with Slim's shades right now, the only thing adorning her freshwatered-flesh-flawless figure.

"Scott," she said, as out of breath as she was when alighting most arousingly just before the start of her first one-on-one outing with Cyke in Madripoor…as out of breath as she would always be, upon finishing an inning of intimacy with the same man upon his bedroom/office floor every night…

"Scott, it just occurred to me…the…the ball-bearings just installed, housed along the edges of the Blackbird's turbines…"

As more and more droplets of water and sweat coursed down Kwannon's denuded frame, and as Scott's smaller cyclops surged upward in turn…

"…they're of Model A5693216_*79*_…when they should be Model A5693216*_97!*_ Come quickly; we both must erectif…er, rectify this matter, posthas…pohhh…heh, heh, heh…"

Even the canny kunoichi herself couldn't keep a straight face as she allowed some chortles to escape during the course of her divine diversion. Her laughs grew even louder and lewder as Slim readily met her at the lip of the lake, he hefting the Helen from the East into his arms and carrying the lady off lustily.

At the other end of the lake, Warren found his own repose interrupted, as he awoke to witness the woman of his dreams, her skin redder than he could ever remember, her shape shuddering with distress, and her eyes streaming with more water than the lake along which he lay.

"Jean?!

"Jean, what is it…?"

But the airfaring ultraperson could only watch as the woman he adored up and hurried away, she still shaking uncontrollably, her crimson cape cresting behind her towards the bungalow in which both the Angel and the Marvel slept.

A minute later, within the chintzy wooden construct that was the Grey/Worthington cabin…

"Jean, listen…

"Is it about Scott? Did he do something to you?"

But the magnificent maroon-mane could not answer him, she choosing instead to churn out more and more tears as she stood quivering along the cabin wall, near to the bed.

"…

"…Jean…"

"I hate him, Warren."

She stopped about thirty seconds later, her figure no longer emitting tears, but her epidermis still as inflamed as ever.

"I…I ha…I ha…_hate_ him…"

"Jean, come on…"

He approached her slowly, softly, she remaining there standing and not resisting. Gently Jean permitted Warren to take her by the hands and ease down a foot or two away, as calmly as she could allow, upon the bed's satiny surface.

She sniffed as she abruptly reached up and shucked off the crimson cape upon her shoulders.

"I don't know why I'm even trying to bother anymore…"

Then she pushed Warren back, ever so lightly, backward so that he could come to rest with his back upon the sheets, he facing upward, facing his lady.

She reached back and unclasped the harness binding the top half of her torso. A second later, the shells came down.

It then became so much harder for Warren to look at the glinting greens and whites of Jean's iridescent eyes…when there was a much larger pair of creams and reds staring back at him a foot or so below her gaze.

"He…he's such…

"…he's such a _bastard…"_

Warren, meanwhile, was spellbound at what he was seeing. Jean of course could tell, from her psionics to her peripherals, that the Angel was angling his eyesight toward her body's bounty…but she was so out of sorts that she didn't care. Deep down, she enjoyed the attention from him, anyway.

But oh the bounty of it. What was uncovered before him, as was the case a handful of occasions before by now, were the most grandiose, behemoth breasts a man could behold. Again, Warren had witnessed their unfurling earlier in his relationship with the red demigoddess…but for one, his thirty-year-wait for such witnessing made it something new and magnificent every time…

…for two, the flushness of the fair maiden's flesh made her all the more damningly desirable…to the point at which Warren wished to whisk up faster than he ever could with any kind of wings and hold Jean, make love to her in every possible way.

…Of course, as the ravishing red was a mindreader, and an expert at reading body language besides (by way of her talents), she made the move for him, just as she did at the kitchen table at the time of their first crushing kiss.

Bluntly Jean battened down upon Warren, she wrapping her immaculate ivory arms around his waist of cobalt, she clawing at his back more viciously than any overpromoted adamantium assmonkey ever could, she smothering his mouth with her own full red pillows of lips.

Instantly the woman felt the Angel's most arch of branches bucking up beneath her, and she consequently clasped the cord of smaller shells at her shapely hips, her hands thrusting downward more quickly than Pietro Maximoff could put his hands into his pockets. The pluvial panties thus plummeted down, resting around the lady's heels a second before she telekinetically motioned them off entirely.

Now Jean was naked, agitated, and otherwise aroused atop an equally-undressed Archangel, her skin so sanguine upon his own so cerulean, a few of her tears and so much of her body sweat bathing the blond beau of mutantdom beneath her, she allowing Warren to lather his tongue along her impeccable neck, to lay his lips along her florid areolas, to mouth every iota of her capacious breasts as he had dreamed of doing for decades, to slather her belly with so much salivary fervor, to lap up the lint lying within the luscious trough of her navel, to ruminate endlessly at her moistening mouth beneath.

Jean, in turn, she palmed at the man's haughty haunches, kept on clawing at the wondrous Worthington's back, grabbed at the upstanding, unyielding stalk that made the manhood of an Alan Moore Manhattan look and feel like that of Papa Fucking Smurf in contrast. She permitted that prodding object to penetrate, to press itself along inside of her, she seconds later rising and falling with the persistent pulsing of the man to which she was most intimately trysting.

It was only minutes thereafter, while Jean billowed down to lie lovingly beside this gracious man so devoted to her, that the shrieking whoop and the striking wallop of a concussive form beam issued, taking out the side of the lovers' bungalow and bringing them ever so brusquely out of their wayward, wanton bliss.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER PART THE SECOND: THE COLANDER OF CHROMOSOMAL CULLING

By Quillon42

CHAPTER FOUR

When she came to, Kwannon could feel the firmest kinds of bonds upon her wrists that had ever been administered in her entire existence. Looking down, the violet-tressed vavavoom could tell that she was still almost entirely unclothed…save for an ebon headband upon her forehead, keeping her from projecting psionic energy, as well as raven bracelets upon the majority of her forearms, preventing the lovely lady from manifesting the meanest of psychic cutlery.

All around her, Kwannon noted as well that her Companions of the Atom had been similarly trussed and otherwise immobilized. Warren had the same kinds of midnight-black manacling upon hands and wings pinned down behind his back; Jean had some kind of strange onyx earmuffs, which must have kept her from calling out to others telepathically (although otherwise she was shunted mercifully back into her cape and shells, so as not to be as naked as the other three captives)…

…and Scott…well, as with the previous adventure, he had upon his face what appeared to be a corset, this time the hue of coal, covering the entirety of his face.

"Ahh, the carousers have been aroused," uttered a cruel, conquering voice from the edge of the chamber the heroes occupied. Without any other fanfare, the Aryan effers known as the daughter and son of Strucker came strolling on in, they too nearly nude save for notable ebony effects upon key areas of their bodies, and little else.

For Andreas, the young man wore the slightest black speedo and only threadbare sandals besides, his Adonislike form flashing its tremendously-built torso, its tree trunks of limber legs, its hallowed haunches that so many German women watched on televisory broadcasts and mooned over from their humble homes.

For Andrea, the young lady was clad in the skimpiest black bikini and only ivory heels besides, her Aphrodite essence flaunting itself through sublime custard thighs, smooth quivering tapioca belly, and ripened ambrosial breasts burgeoning, almost bursting altogether from the slightest nylon constraints.

(And for the source material of said costuming and such…you can see either Uncanny X-Men #200 or especially #260. Again with this author thinking about being selfish about it, and relenting, and again you're welcome.)

(Don't say this author didn't do anything for you…other than give you headaches while attempting to slog through his alliteration-infested, pretension-permeated prose.)

"Our bonds of obsidian have proven rather potent upon your persons, we see," continued Andreas, as he squeezed all the more tightly his too-cherished sister's hand.

Then Andrea, rather wryly: "We can tell that, more than anything, the Swarthzet upon Mister Summers's face is most cozy upon his countenance."

This was met by a most bellicose stare from her brother, as the posh pretense of a man was accustomed to said Swarthzet, usually utilized by his sister, swathing his own features as eyecovers to help him to sleep.

He held forthwith from lashing out at Andrea, in any case, as he knew that the intimate item was being put to good use; for Slim and his associates, all powers were presently held in check.

Speaking of the Summers, Scott now: "What is it that you Nazi spawn want from us? You want to suck our abilities away, make us into normal humans, so you can become gods? The whole Aryan agenda, is that it?"

"Oh, we want so, so much more than that, Herr…Slutters, or whatever it is that your inferior Asian lady calls you." With this last, Andrea broke from her too-beloved brother and strolled right up to the super.

Whispering into his ear while thumbing a strap of her swimsuit bra: "And I could devise a plan, involving you and I alone, that would involve a proximity even more…cushily close than that which I have savored with my own brother, all this time."

Without even a second's hesitation:

"Not interested, Miss Fenris!"

Scott readily refused the offer, as for one, at this time at least he was always the unerring boy scout; and for two, even though Jean and Kwannon nearby were apparently depowered, one never really knew with telepaths, and perhaps they were picking up Andrea's offer despite the fact that the ladies' heads were somewhat hampered.

Slim could see that Warren, if but for no one else, was craning his neck and looking incredulously his way. In this reality, for nothing else, the Angel had superhuman, owllike hearing capabilities in addition to exceptional eaglelike vision.

In any case, it was no deal between Summers and Strucker.

"Anything else you all have up your sleazy sleeves?!" cried Jean, she exasperated at her psionic enervation. "Or…like, sleazy sleeveless…ness…given that you're not really wearing any…"

"We were just getting there, Fraulein Phoenix," boasted Andreas, he bringing along his perpetual bottle of Riesling and waving it menacingly before her face. "The cornerstone of our conspiracy…is nothing less than what stands ever so erect in the distance, as you might see."

Warren nearby followed the indicating finger of Lord Strucker as he pointed to a towering platinum pillar by the shores of Genosha. More than anyone, he could see so clearly with his eagle eyes that it appeared to be…to be…

"Ohhh, no…" he mused, knowing of Kwannon and Scott's quest in Southeast Asia last year. "Not another dubious nuke."

"Ahh, yes, my idol of lapis lazuli." Andrea clacked across the tense chamber floor with stiletto heels to Worthington, the lady's body radiating ravish from every pore as she went, her heavenly whitebread beauty almost converting the Archangel into an Archvile right then and there.

But then the man remembered the stunner in scarlet next to him, to whom he was beheld in heart all this time, and he collected himself up again.

Regardless, Andrea: "What you see in the distance is…the Colander of Chromosomal Culling."

The lady allowed for the requisite crinkling of brows from the uberhuman inmates, then continued. "What we have devised with our overtaking and culling of the children of Genosha is only the beginning. Sure, with the superhuman stock available here, we have been able to augment our own abilities…"

"…But we seek so much more than that, in the long term," finished Andreas, he padding forth on his own slick sandals to reach Kwannon another instant later and fondle her chin as she resisted viciously. "Our ultimate goal…is to launch that palladium projectile from these shores…and the detonation of its payload will release small power cells, to cull the abilities from everywhere in the world, giving us not only infinite power, as gods like you say, Herr Slutters…but also the prize of ETERNAL LIFE!"

Warren just shot a dull look at the other, far more moronic blond man. "You're fucking with us, right?"

A look of askance disbelief from Andrea's bawdy brother.

"You're just, like, ripping off Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, sort of…even down to the Nazi personas and shit."

"You will _not_ speak to my sibling as such!" shouted Andrea, as true to her name she struck Worthington across the face, her bitchy backhand drawing blood from his nose.

Continuing as she paced around the chamber, the blonde so much more deadly (and delectable) than any unctuous Emma Frost could ever be: "You don't…you _can't_ comprehend the burden the both of us will be undertaking. Andreas, as a modern-day Adonis…and myself, as a modern Aphrodite…we are both about to convert to Atlases. The two of us, and two of us alone will assume, will shoulder the responsibilities of the powers and lifeforce otherwise which we are imminently inheriting from the likes of yourselves. As only Andreas and I are unflinchingly flawless, it is optimal that we relieve you of your own, fucked-up functions…that we appropriate the abilities for ourselves…so that we can bring the human race to a new stratum of survival…a new instance of existence…!"

"Sounds more like the whole 'Redheads and the Wretched' deal that the White Mikado went on and on about a year ago…"

This last defiant retort came not from Kwannon, or Warren, or Jean, or Slut.

All looked up as a woman of beautiful, burnished skin, she waving her hands above her head and wearing only falcon feathers in her hair, had finished wisecracking…

…and started attacking.

"…Moonstar," said Jean, she stirring all the more now in her cramped configuration. "It's Danielle Moonstar!"

"That's right," said the Native American assailant, as images of great beasts ballooned forth from her conjuring, forcing Fenris back. "Not Psyche, or Mirage, or Dark Rider, or any of that. Just good old Danielle Moonstar.

"And you know what that means, Miss Grey, don't you…"

The Phoenix template's face brightened at once. "Of course!"

Then as the others noted Amanda Sefton and her mother, the fellow mystic Margali Szardos emerging from the shadows as well, they similarly wearing nothing themselves and waving their hands to undo the fetters of jet that held the others in place. They then began to hurl small canisters out, releasing a cold substance that considerably slowed the Struckers' movement as they attempted to retaliate.

Jean, once more, most elatedly as she gathered herself into action:

"Coolant Temperature ChloroFluoroCarbons," she rallied to her allies as she urged them into action. "The signature substance used by my old side group, the CTCFC…

"Otherwise and best known as the CHICKS TOO COOL FOR CODENAMES!"

Now all heck broke loose as, bereft of that which bound their abilities, the Xers joined the Chicks in coming together against the Aryans who would oppose them and so many mutants enslaved on the island. Nazi reinforcements came rushing in at that moment, but the aforementioned Margali and her foster daughter Sefton set against them with several spells that did everything from concuss them to crush them.

Next came in Victoria Montesi, another twentieth-century sorceress who endeavored mostly against vampires, and who like Jean was a mite bit uncomfortable sans clothing. Finally, on the other hand, there was the Man-Thing familiar Jennifer Kale, whose nudity surprised absolutely no one (look up almost any image of her ever, and you'll understand).

Kale and Montesi made a portal for reinforcements of their own to come out, and soon the battle was joined all the more by Rusty Collins, Mikhail Rasputin, Luke Cage, Henry Pym, and Rick Jones, all of them completely shorn of their dynamic duds as well.

"The Dudes Too Douchey For Dogtags are ready to raid the fray!" announced Herr Henry, in a most corny Bronze-Age-like fashion.

Chicks and Dudes alike skirmished against the lesser soldiers, the nudity of the Cs and Ds (these letters delineating initialed team name abbreviations, as well as bust size denominations) so utterly stymieing (and/or stiffening) the enemy to the point at which it became an easy victory for the shameless heroes and heroines.

Outside, and much closer to the bragged-on nuke, Cyclops, Archangel, Kwannon, and Jean sprinted after the Struckers as the latter rode a vengeful master-race go-kart to the launch site. The piddling vehicle outpaced even Warren with his wings, as the latter was still so exhausted from the onyx-shackled ordeal from his captors' dungeon just now.

Within minutes the terrible, tetch-inducing twins were upon a small walkway near the controls of the woeful weapon. By the time the tourist foursome beheld the siblings once more, they could see Speedo and swimsuit alike at their feet, Andrea and Andreas facing them all unfabricked.

"WE WILL OWN THIS EARTH!" bellowed the motherfucker that was the Brother Strucker, he raising his free hand to make the earth rumble, and to cause three of the four interlopers to fall upon the ground. As Jean was levitating Scott to get off a good-vantaged shot with his noxious optics, Summers was spared the flooring that his threesome of cohorts suffered.

The leader fluttered to the ground nonetheless, without Jean's kinesis to carry him. He was the first to reach his feet despite his fall, but then

[VRRREEEEEETTTTT]

A yellowish blast bolting out from Andrea's forefinger above encased the Clops, disintegrating him slowly enough for him to strike an agonized, Moon-Blue-Areaesque pose as he reached out to his eggplant-haired inamorata, while she flailed for him in turn:

_"SLUT!"_ she screamed from her rueful position upon the Genoshan plain.

_"KWAN!"_ he returned from the egregious golden shower that engorged him.

And then, a second later, to Kwannon's shock there was nothing remaining at all, not an inch of exposed skin or anything whatsoever, in the place of what was the lustful leader's afflicted anatomy a second previous.

TO BE CONCLUDED


	5. Chapter 5

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER PART THE SECOND: THE COLANDER OF CHROMOSOMAL CULLING

By Quillon42

CHAPTER FIVE

Upon witnessing the seeming Summers destruction, Jean let drop leagues of tears, she believing now that she had lost a man who was a wonderful leader, lover, and friend.

At noting the same, Warren's face darkened down to the deepest shade of denim, as he too knew that a great compatriot and mutant general had gone the way of all things too, too soon.

Once she saw the man for whom she at least sexually lusted bite the dust, Kwannon found that she could no longer contain a certain other kind of lust…

…one which called for the corpses of those responsible for the slaughter of the Slut she sought after all this time.

Furiously the kunoichi lashed out with several small purplish-pink psy-tantos, the small blades bursting out of her delicate fingers and finding purchase all over the control panel by which two fatalistic Fenris fuckers would, by way of a long and hard nuclear nightmare known as the Chromosomal Colander or whatever the fuck it was called, attempt to own all the Earth's supergenetic stock.

Andrea and Andreas inched backward at the assault by the exasperated X-Lady, the Nazis nuzzling up towards the rear of the platform on which they stood, the two seeking to shunt one's hand into the other and rattle off another earthquake-cum-concussive-force catastrophe by way of Andreas's seismic and Andrea's energy-blast abilities, respectively…

…when, from behind and underneath the both of them…

[AAARF AAARF AAARF AAARF AAARF AAARF]

the most cacophonous of canine clatter sounded from the ground to the back of the missile launch site, the twin Germans of Gack known as the Von Struckers spinning around just in time

[CRRRAAAAAACCCKKK]

each to receive a resounding kick to the face from a foot apiece of one Chinese paramedic-turned-psychopath, a young woman who went from working with physicians to working in fishnet stockings and lascivious leathers, after a cruel encounter with an age-old X-Nemesis known as the Shadow King.

Andreas was knocked off the platform first, and he regained his feet just in time to catch his sibling-in-incest with both his inbreedy arms as the lady assailant addressed them.

"I'm not expecting any kind of acknowledgment or recognition from you all as to who the eff I am," she began, "as really, apart from like goofy-ass Gambit and an ante-adolescence Ororo, no one on this side of the Marvel Machine's gummy works knows who the fuck I am. …But that's the Bullshitpen for ya!"

Do-gooders and dastards alike, all divested of their clothing duds, all scratched their heads in unison as the newcomer on the scene explained on:

"Hell, even the Struckers don't remember who I am…even though I engaged in a menage with them, courtesy of a fallout shelter closet, near the end of the last Nuke-Nudes!

"I am none other than the Asian enchantress who might have made a splash in the X-Verse…a come-on from China who might have made for the most exotically arousing offering during the negligible Nineties…were it not for the screwing violet over there, who supplanted me more or less."

With the riding crop she wielded, this lovely latecomer to the party indicated Kwannon, who began to generate new ninja blades from her fists in response.

Without stopping for a second, the new lady again: "Now, now. I'm not here to settle any score with you, Kwannon…not today, anyway.

"What I'm really here for—what I, Lian Shen, am here to undertake for business on this blustery evening—is to take my toll out of the hides of these two Teutonic traitors here, for hurting me in a way no other mutant, or the Machine itself even, could hurt me."

Then beckoning the rabid, human Hounds that Miss Shen brought with her…the abovementioned canines who caterwauled and helped introduce Andrea and Andreas to Lian's long legged kicks to the face:

"The two of you said you would _call me,_ after we terminated our threesome in the fallout closet.

"I've already had the tyrants at Marvel itself forget about me, after they only let me floss and flaunt for about nine issues…

"I won't be tossed aside by any other fascists anymore…least of all interbreeding absolutists like you! Sic 'em, boys and girls!"

Then it came about that both hapless Struckerseseses found themselves sprinting, as much as they could in sandals and heels anyway, from the slavering dehumanized sentries of this long-past discarded dominatrix known as Lian Shen. In another Machine-managed universe, this long, lovely lady might have played a much more pivotal part; as it was, she was only eye candy for less than ten issues, and by the time her master the Shadow King was wallowing in the shambles of defeat, Lian was all but lost to the annals of obscurity.

(As one more sexy reference here, in any case…check out UXM 267 for one example of the might-have-been-a-periodically-alluring mistress known as Lian Shen…and etc etc etc with don't say I never gave you anything and such).

Anyway, while Lian approached the undressed uncanny ones not to fight, but rather tin a gesture of grace and peace, Andrea(s) Strucker(s) made their way to the edge of the island—exactly the same area upon which Fraulein Fuhrer earlier had set his sniper's sights, for sport.

And wouldn't you know it, but that same quarry Jenny Ransome had now quietly crept upon the two, with boyfriend Phillip in tow, and true to her full name, ransomed a Jenny…or Genny, as it were, who did not run the entire island…

…so much as she was the island itself in actuality.

Indeed, with the release of some mutant steroids designed by the Struckers on the side, and which Miss Ransome poured into the very earth of the isle itself…

[GRRRRRAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH]

the very island of Genosha became alive once more, as it had in a very Base and Climactic story which this author had written about a year ago (reader's time).

Manifesting its superbly beautiful face out of the soil of the ground near to the absconding Struckers, the Genosha entity discerned the two Aryan enemies with disdain, and spoke as such:

"I WILL ALLOW YOU DOUCHES FROM DEUTSCHELAND TO DEFILE MY GROUNDS NO LONGER. THE SUMMIT I AM ABOUT TO INITIATE WILL BRING TO THIS PLACE A NEW PEACE…

"…EVEN IF IT ENDS UP THAT WE ALL OURSELVES GO TO PIECES, IN THE PROCESS.

"KRAAAAA-KRAAAAA!"

[SPLLLLLOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHH]

And before anyone could even begin to crane his or her head to the heavens, a gross green galoot made mostly of grass, sand, and dirt splattered down into the ocean alongside Genosha. The lady island looked to her visitor—an old villain which was more of a place than a person or thing, but a foe of the far-flung mutant mofos nonetheless.

It came about that KRAKOA himself had come down, to assist that impeccably immaculate isle whom he adored more than any other entity in the multiverse…

…this day, indeed, all the world would once more witness the whoopee made by the pair of plate-tectonics-byproducts known as Krakoa and Genosha.

"Really it is good to come down once again, Genny," began the interloping Living Island, he surveying all the onlookers as he addressed the politically-beleaguered princess of his loamy, grimy heart. "Hmm…I see that there are many good, able-bodied beings…quite supple-bodied beings at that…gathered to support your cause."

Regarding one unclothed blonde mystic in particular: "Mmm…looks like I should lay off the spinach and okra…and start going heavy on the Kale! Didn't know there were such sunny varieties of it, to boot!"

Then, after

[WHHAPPPPP WHHAPPPPP WHHAPPPPP]

"OWWWWW!"

Genosha had slapped Krakoa along the upside of his sentiently-verdant head a few times, the she-satellite of Nature, with a sudden urgency:

"LOOK, Kra-Kra! One of our Swastika-suckers is looking still to launch the…"

But it was too late. Of the Struckers, Andreas had wrested himself away from the oncoming Hounds for long enough to scale the nuclear missile scaffold once again, and begin the sequence for the discharge of that perditious pillar that would cull mutant abilities from all ends of the Earth.

"I MUST EVACUATE EVERYONE, STAT…"

With this, the island of Genosha itself lifted into the air, off its maritime moorings in the ocean which it regularly inhabited, and plunked down into the sea almost all the humans huddled atop her.

All inhabitants, that is…save for the Deutsche delinquent who would cause the Colander to course its deadly payload into the sky in the ensuing seconds.

"There is no time, Genny," cried Krakoa, holding to the lady's shorey shoulder a cliffside that served as one of the male isle's grubby hands. "We must engage now…or never, in infinite eons."

Then with that, the two islands, with the nuke and Mr. Struck still upon Genosha, commenced to collide once more in the dodgiest, coitally cataclysmic display possible. Krakoa led, taking Genosha into his twitching jetties and planting the hillocks of his lips against the hummocks of her own. The ridge of Krakoa's tongue crashed against the seamount of Genosha's own, the two making monsoons with the terra-firma tonsil hockey they perpetrated. This most panoramic makeout session filled everyone with an amalgam of awe, curiosity, and disgust. No one was more entranced and appalled by all this than Andreas, who was still upon the orgasming islet known as Genosha while this was all transpiring.

"_GET ME OFF THIS…LITERALLY FUCKING ISLAND!_" screamed the heiling hard-on as he remained suspended upon Genosha's grassy ground, all by way of muck that nommed upon his body from feet to knees as this was all going off.

And then, raising an earthen eyebrow, Genosha: "Come on, Kra…let's go ahead and live up again to what this totalitarian tough guy says that I…that we both do."

Then the two lewdest landforms of all time came together in a way that neither island ever had before, with any continental cohort. Lying in an intertwined way upon international waters, Krakoa guided his firth towards Genosha's moistest shore, while in turn Genosha steered her delta towards that pointed promontory of which Krakoa was most proud.

While Phillip Moreau cranked up Duran Duran's "To The Shore" on a small inkling of land nearby, the two island entities lived up to that ballad's bawdy overtones by each eroding the soil of the other in a most overt, amorous fashion. Kra de-sedimented Genosha's shore to the rhythm of the love song, while Gen did the same in turn by coursing her delta upon that Iberian obelisk Krakoa boasted, that cape about which Kra crowed for so many centuries.

In the time it took for the entire proto-emo number to complete itself, the two islands had irrigated one another inside and out. Kra drew back abruptly, his Thousand-Island dressing erupting from his Balkan pylon and squirting itself all over Genosha's smooth, serene valley, as well as upon her twin sublime sierras and her excessively-earthy butte. Andreas did not escape the prurient precipitation either, as he found himself inundated with the icky drizzle of an undergratified groundmass. At least this was demoralizing enough to make the man-monster shut up, in any case.

The act between the isles, in short, could be captured in brief by a numerical quantity contained within the name of that abovementioned salad dressing…minus nine-hundred-thirty-one (which was also probably the number of Machine X-Titles in existence nowadays).

During the course of this disgusting doomsday intercourse too, by the way, more than just earthly emissions were exchanged. Now the nuke was upon Krakoa's soil—

-as was Andreas, to the horror of his sister-in-incest.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" screamed Andrea and Genosha in stereo, as with a calamitous flourish, the original Living Island shot itself upward, infinitely spiraling into the air, and with a grassy isthmus of an arm it wrested the missile and the mofo who first planted it upon his lover…and shunted both instances of atomic waste into its mossy maw. An instant following

[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]

neither Genosha's lover, nor Andrea's brother (and also lover) existed either on this Earth, or as the Earth, anymore.

The isle still sitting in the sea after this atrocity then abraded itself, abraded away so much silt and loess that flash floods of frustration were made as a result. With their technology on hand, Phillip and Genny radioed for help, and magistrate catamarans came around to ferry the island-forsaken survivors, they treading water tenuously for the last hour, away from the awful scene of carnality and carnage.

Of those aboard the craft, none were more crestfallen than Jean, Warren, and Kwannon, for they had pass from their lives a man who was so important to all of them, and intimate to at least two out of three. Their gaze lingered backward, to the locale upon which they lost this great individual…

…only to have their view blocked by that same Summers a second later.

"Wha…SLUT!"

And then Kwannon ran her starkers self right over to the slimy slim one. As they embraced, in the altogether, of course, the other alluring Asian made her presence known once more.

"It was easy to bring him back," she explained, Lian brandishing her riding crop once more. "Despite the fact that the Machine discarded me, I still had some Shadow Queen in me, sort of…and as such, I was able to wave my little flail of fornication here like the proverbial magic wand and voila! Scott Summers, once again in the lascivious flesh."

The entire explanation fell on deaf ears for the ninja who needed the man most, she determined to wrestle him down in that nooky cocoon that was their sleeping bag in Scott's quarters as soon as they returned Stateside.

"No matter what we're up against in the future, Scott," said Kwannon, with determination and desire in her eyes as she held her man to herself tightly, "whether it's eternal enemies, fallen-away friends, or…just you and I up against one another, of course…we'll all ne NUKE-NUDES FOREVER!"

(NB: I will beef up this last chapter a bit in the near future…just wanted to finish the story per se before the month was out).


End file.
